[DCI Neil Paget 01] - Fatal Flaw Read online

  Paget rose to his feet. ‘Thank you. Miss Pritchard. You’ve been a great help,’ he said, ‘but I’m afraid I must ask you the same question I asked Miss Gray. Did Monica ever say anything to you that suggested she was considering taking her own life?’

  Sally Pritchard stood up. Her head barely came to Paget’s shoulder. The question seemed to trouble her, and she took a long time to answer. ‘No,’ she said in a voice so low that Paget barely heard her. ‘If I’d even thought she might...No.’ She walked to the door and opened it.

  ‘There is one more thing you can do for me,’ Paget said. ‘I’d like you to give me a list of the people who were at the party yesterday, if you will. I can pick it up tomorrow morning on my way to Glenacres.’

  ‘You mean you are going to talk to everyone who was there?’ She looked dubious. ‘I’m not sure I can remember them all.’

  ‘It may not be necessary to talk to them all,’ he said, ‘but I would like the list to be as complete as possible just in case.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ she said, ‘but there’s no need to call in here. I shall be at work myself, tomorrow. It’s a big day for us.

  It’s the Warrendale Hunt, and everyone will be picking up their horses at Glenacres. Warrendale Hall is only about half a mile down the road, so most of them will get sorted out at Glenacres and ride over to the Hall from there. That is unless the weather turns bad overnight, of course.’

  Another thought occurred to her. ‘I hope you weren’t planning on talking to everyone at Glenacres tomorrow,’ she said. ‘We’ll be short-staffed as it is, what with people off for the holiday and the hunt and all. It would be much better if you could wait until Monday.’

  ‘I’d rather not leave it any longer than I have to,’ he said. ‘Could you spare me half an hour tomorrow morning?’

  Sally Pritchard looked doubtful. ‘I might after everyone has gone,’ she said, but her tone was not encouraging.

  Paget said goodbye, and was surprised when she followed him out on to the step. She stood there for a moment as if about to speak, then apparently changed her mind and stepped back inside and closed the door.

  There was a cold, clammy dampness in the air, and Paget pulled his coat around him as he followed his own footprints in the snow to where he’d left the car. Sally Pritchard seemed to be sincere and quite straightforward - for the most part. She’d been uncomfortable about something, though. She probably felt guilty about not taking Monica seriously. That was understandable, but it didn’t explain why she had followed him outside. What had she been going to say before she changed her mind? And why, as she turned away, had she been shaking like a leaf?

  8

  Ashton Prior was a small village that lay off the beaten track some twenty minutes’ drive from Broadminster. It had neither the charm of its more famous Cotswold cousins, nor any historical significance to attract the tourist or the scholar. Neither had it been ‘discovered’ by urban dwellers seeking rural solitude, only to destroy it by dragging bag and baggage with them. In fact, it was one of those wonderful rarities, a village without character - and its residents liked it that way.

  Four o’clock in the afternoon, and the light was almost gone as Paget entered the main street. It lay silent and empty beneath a fresh mantle of snow. Apart from a few dimly lighted windows suggesting life within, the village might have been deserted.

  He turned right at the church and dropped into a lower gear as he passed the pub on the corner and went down the hill to the bridge at the bottom. The hill wasn’t all that steep, but it was treacherous in winter, and Paget had learned to treat it with respect. He picked up speed as he crossed the narrow bridge, and shot up the other side, turning into his driveway just as his tyres began to lose their grip.

  It had begun to snow again as he put the car away, and he wondered whether they would have to call off the Warrendale Hunt tomorrow.

  He went through the house turning on lights. After all, he reminded himself, today was Christmas Day. There should be light! He stopped before the Christmas tree Mrs Wentworth had bought and decorated. She’d done a lovely job and she wasn’t even there to enjoy it. Oh, what the hell, he thought, she’d gone to all that trouble. The least he could do was plug in the lights.

  The lights came on. They glowed brightly for an instant, then dimmed. There was a frying sound, a smell of burning, and they all went out.

  He sighed and pulled the plug. ‘Merry Christmas, Neil,’ he said aloud. The sound echoed hollowly in the room. ‘And let’s not forget “Joy to the World”,’ he muttered beneath his breath. He stood there, irresolute, in the middle of the room.

  Carols. That was it. Let’s have some good old-fashioned carols...

  He didn’t have any carols on tape or disc. Packed away somewhere were some old 33s, but he didn’t know where and he wasn’t in the mood to start looking. In desperation, he turned on the radio and spun the dial through a series of stations pumping out everything from rock to chat shows. When he came to one where someone was droning on about what to do with holly after Christmas, he turned it off in disgust.

  ‘I could tell you what to do with your bloody holly,’ he muttered, ‘but I can guarantee you wouldn’t like it.’

  He dropped into a chair, put his head back and closed his eyes.

  He thought of ringing Andrea. Wondered how she was spending Christmas. Where she was spending Christmas, for that matter. It occurred to him that he knew practically nothing about her friends and relatives. She never talked about herself, her background, parents, anything. He knew she was divorced. That much she had told him, but she had never mentioned the matter again.

  And she had never invited him in. Come to think of it, she had always been down at the door, waiting, when he went to pick her up. But that was probably just her way. Andrea deplored tardiness; didn’t like to keep anyone waiting.

  She must be working. He should have stopped off at the hospital, but...No, not a good idea. What was the point? If she had wanted to talk to him she would have called before this. Perhaps she’d gone away for Christmas. But then, she’d said she’d be working over the holidays. Besides, she would have mentioned it. Wouldn’t she?

  His stomach growled, reminding him that he’d had nothing to eat since breakfast. He heaved himself out of the chair and went to the fridge. Mrs Wentworth had left all sorts of things for him to choose from, but there was nothing there he really fancied.

  In the end, he scrambled some eggs, tossed in a few bits of cheese and made some toast. Then he sat down in front of the TV to eat while he watched the show he’d taped the night before - A Christmas Carol with Alistair Simm. He and Jill had watched it faithfully every year.

  But his mind was restless, and the image of Monica Shaw intruded. Had she really committed suicide? Certainly, by all accounts, she had no friends - with the possible exception of Sally Pritchard, but even she seemed to have befriended the girl more out of a sense of duty than anything else. Or pity. But was that enough to drive a girl of seventeen to take her own life?

  Paget punched the Off button on the remote control, and closed his eyes.

  It wasn’t the same, watching it on his own.

  9

  Saturday, 26 December

  Paget knew it was a mistake as soon as he turned into the driveway leading up to the stables. There were cars and bikes and horse-boxes parked all the way up the drive. He continued on, looking for a place to turn round, but every inch of space was taken and he was forced to back all the way down again and park farther down the road.

  The Warrendale Hunt was quite obviously on.

  He was annoyed with himself for not having realized what it would be like this morning, but then, he’d never attended a hunt before - or at least the preparations for one. He should have heeded Sally Pritchard’s warning, but it was a bit late to think of that now.

  But it wasn’t just that. He’d been irritable ever since four o’clock this morning when he’d finally given up trying to slee
p. Silly thing to do, dropping off like that in the chair last night. He’d slept for almost three hours, and as a consequence had tossed and turned for half the night before finally getting up at four. He breathed in deeply as he got out of the car, but his head still felt as if it were stuffed with cotton wool.

  At least he’d had the good sense to toss a pair of wellingtons in the car, and now he put them on. A warm front had moved in overnight, and the gravelled drive had turned to rutted slop with the passage of so many vehicles.

  The stable yard was even more congested than the driveway. He really should have thought to ask Sally Pritchard what time the hunt started. He hadn’t counted on there being this many people. The yard was full of them; people and horses, all milling about in what seemed like aimless confusion. And yet, beneath it all, he sensed some sort of order, and with it an undercurrent of excitement and anticipation. Riders conversed earnestly with grooms and with each other, while others stood about chatting in small clusters of three or four, seemingly oblivious to grooms and horses trying to get through.

  Black appeared to be the favoured colour in jackets, although dark green and navy were represented, together with light- coloured jodhpurs and well-polished boots. But there were a few red jackets, Paget noted. What did they call them? Pinks, that was it. Though why such blazing red should deserve the name ‘pink’ was beyond him.

  The small group stood apart, aloof from the plebeian mob, stern-faced and serious, eyes roving critically even as they talked among themselves. Shepherds ever conscious of their flock.

  He stood to one side, watching. He couldn’t escape the feeling that the scene transcended time; that had he been here fifty, sixty, seventy, or even a hundred years ago, everything would have been much the same.

  He began to move again, and as he eased his way through the shifting throng, he picked up snippets of conversation.

  ‘...sturdy legs. Plenty of bone. Should go for a good price, if I’m any judge. Still, we’ll see next week...’

  ‘...simply impossible to get to, now. But then, what can you expect? It would never occur to British Rail to ask the people who actually use the confounded thing. All they can think about is...’

  ‘...and all I can say is that she knew bloody well when the hunt was, so if she was so anxious to ride she should have taken it into account when she got herself put up the spout. I mean, really!’

  ‘...not worth a damn. Mind you, I still think there’s good potential, long term, in the mining stocks. You see, it all depends upon…’

  ‘Mind your back, sir. Coming through.’ Paget stepped smartly aside to avoid being trodden on by a big grey as it clattered over the cobblestones, sending slush in all directions. ‘Sorry about that, sir,’ said the young groom apologetically. ‘You have to look sharp with this one. Loves to tread on people’s feet, does Busker.’

  He made his way to one side, trying to stay clear of what had now become a steady parade of horses moving down the cobbled yard, and he caught a glimpse of Sally Pritchard. She was standing in the doorway of what had to be the red barn she’d spoken of the day before. Her head was down as she listened closely to a tall, dark-haired woman who punctuated her words with quick, emphatic gestures.

  The woman was beautiful. She was tall and slender, her gestures graceful, almost languid. From a distance, at least, her olive-coloured skin was flawless, and her hair was as black as midnight. There was an air of authority about her, and she looked vaguely familiar, but Paget couldn’t place her. Whoever she was, she certainly seemed to have a lot to say to Sally, and from the expression on Sally’s face, she wasn’t buying it. At one point she shook her head vigorously from side to side, and said something the woman didn’t like. The woman turned as if to leave, but Sally put a hand on her arm. She seemed to be pleading with the woman. Paget thought she looked quite desperate.

  Two horses stopped in front of him, blocking his view, and by the time they moved on, the woman to whom Sally had been talking was no longer there. He began to move towards the girl, but she was immediately surrounded by a group of young riders all talking at once.

  ‘Excuse me …’ Paget stopped one of the grooms. She was a big-boned, fair-haired girl with an open, friendly, freckled face. ‘What time does the hunt start? When does all this he swept an arm around the yard - ‘activity die down?’

  ‘The hunt starts at eleven o’clock,’ said the girl. He could see the question in her eyes as she took in his suit and tie. ‘But the yard should be clear by ten at the latest. They’ll go to the Mocking Bird first. They always stop at the pub on the way to the Hall.’ She lowered her voice conspiratorially and grinned. ‘Some of ‘em need it to give ‘em the courage to take the jumps,’ she confided.

  Paget smiled in return. ‘I see. Thank you,’ he said.

  The girl looked as if she were about to say something else when someone called: ‘Penny! I need help over here,’ and she was gone.

  Paget glanced at the time. Just turned nine thirty. Not long to wait. In fact, even as he continued to watch, some riders began to move off down the drive, presumably to assure themselves of a place at the bar.

  ‘I don’t believe we’ve met?’ The words were spoken softly, but there was no doubt about the challenge they implied. ‘My name’s Lucas. Jack Lucas. I’m the owner of these stables.’

  He was a big man, about fifty, heavy-set, florid, balding on top. And he wore a red jacket. He stood before Paget, feet apart, shoulders slightly hunched like a boxer sizing up his opponent. His eyes were neither friendly nor unfriendly, merely questioning.

  Paget introduced himself and produced his warrant card. ‘I was hoping to have a word with you later on this morning,’ he said.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector?’ Lucas said, glancing at the card. The look he shot at Paget was no longer neutral. ‘Surely to God you’re not here about the hunt?’

  Paget shook his head. ‘I’m investigating the death of one of the girls over at the Thornton Hill School. Monica Shaw.’

  Lucas didn’t seem to know whether to look relieved or sad, but finally chose sad. ‘Yes, young Sylvia told me,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Terrible business. Very sad indeed, especially at Christmas. Suicide, wasn’t it?’ He left the question hanging, but Paget wasn’t to be drawn. ‘But I don’t see what it has to do with me.’

  ‘She was here at the party on Christmas Eve shortly before she died,’ Paget explained, ‘and I’d like to talk to anyone who may have spoken to her that day.’

  Lucas eyed Paget sharply. ‘I hope you weren’t planning on doing that today,’ he said. ‘My people simply haven’t got time for it. They’ve got more than enough to keep them busy without this sort of thing.’

  ‘Miss Pritchard explained that to me yesterday,’ Paget told him. ‘But we will have to talk to them, so I’ll have someone out here first thing Monday morning. It shouldn’t take long.’

  ‘Well...’

  ‘Did you talk to Monica, yourself, on Thursday, Mr Lucas?’

  ‘Me? No.’ Lucas shook his head vigorously. ‘I knew her to see her, of course, but that’s about all. Saw her at the party, but didn’t talk to her. Mind you, I wasn’t there more than an hour. I had business in town. I left about three and didn’t get back till seven.’

  He glanced around. ‘Look, can this wait?’ he said. ‘The others are ready, and it’s almost time to be off.’ He inclined his head towards a group of people who, Paget had noticed, kept glancing in their direction.

  ‘Of course,’ said Paget agreeably. ‘Until Monday, then.’ Lucas grunted an unintelligible reply and nodded curtly before striding off to join his friends.

  The yard was emptying rapidly. Paget began to walk towards the big red barn at the bottom end of the yard. Sally Pritchard had mentioned an office in the barn, and he hoped to find her there.

  He was half-way down the now almost empty row of box stalls when a woman came round the corner leading a big grey - the same horse, if he wasn’t mistaken, that had almost trodden
on his foot. The man who walked beside her was speaking quietly, low, insistent words, yet almost deferential. The woman stopped, turned, and said something to the man, and it was only then that Paget recognized her.

  Andrea!

  Surprised, but pleased to see her, he was about to step forward. But something about the way the two of them had their heads together made him draw back.

  Andrea was speaking now, her voice low and seemingly urgent. He gained the impression that she was explaining something very carefully to the man. She stopped speaking, turned and mounted. The horse began to move off but she reined him in sharply as the man spoke again.

  Softly. Insistently.

  Paget saw her stiffen. Suddenly, she rose in the stirrups and raised her riding crop. He was sure she was going to strike the man, but he made no move to defend himself. He just stood there, a half-smile on his face as he looked up at her.

  The crop hung there as if frozen in mid-air, and Paget saw the hand that held it begin to shake. Slowly, Andrea sank back in the saddle, hand still shaking as she took up the reins. She dug her heels deep into the horse’s flanks. Startled, the animal moved forward and would have knocked the man down if he had not stepped aside. But even then his movements were unhurried. It was as if he had anticipated the move, and was contemptuous of it. He watched as horse and rider left the yard, then slowly turned and walked away.

  With the scene he’d just witnessed still uppermost in his mind, Paget opened the door of the red barn and peered inside. It was a cavernous building, and certainly the oldest of all the buildings he’d seen so far. And Sally Pritchard was right; it was a bit of a tip. There were odd pieces of rusting farm machinery stacked against the far wall; broken shafts and wheels, the remnants of a dog-cart, and a variety of poles and jumps that had seen better days. There were folding tables stacked one on top of another, and chairs piled high beside them. Directly opposite the door was a big, old-fashioned work bench, its surface strewn with tools. Beside it were a large oil drum, a couple of petrol tins, and a shiny tin marked ‘Grease’. Odd bits of tack hung everywhere from hooks and pegs and nails. Apart from the chairs and tables, it all looked like junk to Paget - but then, what did he know about stables?